


This Toil’s Not What I’m Made For

by ktfics



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Muteness, Post-New Dangan Ronpa V3, Recovery, vr au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 15:45:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19793986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktfics/pseuds/ktfics
Summary: Kokichi shucks off his shirt and watches it swish down to the floor with a vague disinterest. The Team Danganronpa logo emblazoned on the front of it crumples into itself until it becomes unrecognizable, insignificant.He wonders if everything becomes something else when it changes shape.--Kokichi finds that he can't quite live in his body in the same way that he used to post-game.





	This Toil’s Not What I’m Made For

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by some headcanons made by @moomota on tumblr! The title is from the song Pollution/Disclaimer by Ritt Momney. Follow me on tumblr @dykeenvy to talk oumota!

Kokichi shucks off his shirt and watches it swish down to the floor with a vague disinterest. The Team Danganronpa logo emblazoned on the front of it crumples into itself until it becomes unrecognizable, insignificant. He wonders if everything becomes something else when it changes shape, in some unavoidable, irreversible manner; he wonders how the process of decay came to define his life more than living did.

He slips his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and shimmies out of them, leaving them to pile onto the shirt he had just discarded. His socks come next, one at a time, peeled off as quick as he can manage while hopping about on one foot. Kokichi takes a second to clench his fingers, to wiggle his toes, to bask in the sunlight streaming in through the single window in his room and hitting every inch of his skin except for where his loose boxers still provide him with some modicum of modesty.

The nurses left him alone exactly 20 minutes ago. They won’t be back until nightfall to once again attempt to force him into a false sense of normality.

Kokichi carefully creaks open his door and slips out into the hallway. His feet pad against the soft tiles and he enjoys the muffled sound of it in a way that he rarely enjoys sound nowadays; the simple, undeniable truth of his own weight, his own impact, is almost enough to bring a smile ghosting against his lips.

He walks the long distance towards the end of the hallway slowly, deliberately unhurried, and avoids stepping outside the center of each tile as if stepping on a crack might cause him to fall through and never return again.

Kokichi never used to like superstitions, but he finds that they provide a necessary sort of order to his life ever since waking up from the game. Besides, if every part of him is fiction, then he supposes he may as well cling to a few old wive’s tales; they were spawned from the same well of fear and hope that he was, after all.

He finally stops in front of a door that may as well have his handprint ingrained on the wood by now. Reading is a task that has turned impossible, a terribly difficult chore now that Kokichi’s eyes gaze upon characters and they seemingly jumble themselves up, as if this reality were a dream and not the unfortunate waking world. Still, the kanji for “Momota Kaito” stand proudly legible in front of his eyeline, the characters memorized after he’s spent so much time staring at them. Kokichi doesn’t bother knocking before he turns the handle and pushes open the door, his hand resting on the same spot that it always does.

Kaito is sitting up in bed, a closed book perched on his lap as he manages to look both slightly irritated and expectant. His brows furrow in a familiar manner when Kokichi walks in, not a trace of surprise evident in his expression.

“You’re gonna catch a fuckin’ cold if you keep doin’ this,” he mutters. The book is unceremoniously tossed to the side as Kaito stands to rifle through his drawers. The hot, stagnant hospital air settles against Kokichi’s bare skin now that he’s still.

Kaito strides over to meet him in the center of the room. He slides one of his own shirts over Kokichi’s naked torso, his hands running down his arms, his fingers brushing against his knuckles. He helps Kokichi step into a pair of his sweatpants next, and pulls the drawstrings tight, as tight as they can go, before tying them off into a knot. His hands settle on Kokichi’s hips for a moment afterwards, the fabric sagging loosely off of his gaunt body.

“Better?” Kaito’s eyes are intensely clear when he meets Kokichi’s gaze. He’s strong and sturdy and at the same time, Kokichi can still see him shake, can still smell the cigarette smoke lingering in his pores.

Kokichi nods. He doesn’t speak much, lately. Words have not done him any good in the past, and they certainly haven’t led to any good health between Kaito and him.

“C’mere.” Kaito gestures back to the bed, even though Kokichi knows exactly what the routine is by now. “You want me to continue where we left off?”

Kokichi nods again and clambers into bed, clinging to the other boy as he resumes reading out loud. The characters still swim in Kokichi’s vision, his brain unable to make sense of this world, of this body that was ungraciously returned to him, but Kaito’s voice still rings true, despite it all.

When lunchtime comes, the book is carefully shut and placed aside.

“Hey. Y’know, man…” Kaito clears his throat. “Things can’t get better if you don’t… if you don’t talk to me.”

Kokichi blinks; that’s a new idea. Words being used as a form of closure instead of prying open a wound.

“I know I haven’t… I haven’t been very good to you…” Kaito shifts, his arm tightening around Kokichi’s waist in direct contradiction to his statement, “But I miss you; all of you. I know you probably don’t want to hear that, and the doc says you can’t push someone into recovery, but… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I killed you. I wish I could’ve- could’ve-”

Kokichi watches the tears well up in the other boy’s eyes, watches his teeth grit, his fists clench. He opens his mouth. “I’m sorry-” His voice is hoarse, like a previously-beloved tool that had been left to rust. “I’m sorry, too.”

Kaito startles. “Why are you- don’t fuckin’ apologize, just…” He runs his hands over Kokichi’s face, cups his jaw, brushes his thumbs against the bruises under his eyes, and pushes his hair back behind his ears, as if he were checking for injury. Kokichi leans into his touch the same way he always does, welcomes the gentle pressure that somehow brings no reminder of the press.

Kaito stills, his forehead close to Kokichi’s, his body a cradle, a cocoon. “Just live, alright?”

Kokichi nods once more. This life may not want him, this body may not be his, but with a boy made of starlight by his side, the pull of the grave becomes distant, inconsequential.

Besides, he always did have a talent for taking things that weren’t supposed to be his; with a little help, he may just carve out a place for himself in this world just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, comments would be appreciated!!!


End file.
